


in my veins, in my chest

by desdemona (LydiaOfNarnia)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blood Drinking, Halloween, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 05:44:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8433976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/desdemona
Summary: “I - I did something bad.”Iwaizumi is immediately attentive over the other line. Although he can not see him, Oikawa can imagine his friend’s eyes narrowing, spine straightening and jaw going tense. “What did you do,” he says, always so careful, and Oikawa can taste blood in his mouth as he replies.“I - I hurt --” He can't get it out. Saying it makes it real.“Something’s wrong, Iwa-chan,” he finally manages to gasp. “Something’s really wrong with me.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> happy halloween to everyone, especially all you iwaoi trash like me
> 
> get spooky folks

It isn’t personal, Oikawa tells himself. It’s not what he _wants_ to do, but what he has to do.

It’s the hunger that drives him through it all. The craving, the desire, the need for sustenance. He needs to _live_ , and if he isn’t able to feed he knows he will die. He doesn’t want to die. From the moment this ordeal started, the predominant thought in his head has been that he doesn’t want to die.

And maybe it’s too late for living now; but he won’t give up on survival.

So, Oikawa feeds.

* * *

 

He’s learned his lesson. Never stay out practicing until midnight, until your bones are weary, your body aches, and placing one foot in front of the other is an insurmountable challenge. Never accept rides home from strangers -- even if they do have silky voices and seem so, so nice.

It isn’t until he’s pinned up against the wall of a dark alley, brick scraping the skin of his shoulders and his body held firmly in place by one strong hand, that he realizes he’s in trouble. For the boy who wanted to believe he could handle anything, being helpless is an unpleasant surprise. His first reaction isn’t fear; it’s anger.

“Let me go!” he hisses, struggling against the stranger’s grip. “Let go of me, what the hell are you doing?”

The woman -- tall, with nice skin and glossy hair, pretty if Oikawa were inclined that way (he isn't) -- doesn't say a word. She only pins him back by both shoulders, advancing closer. His struggles go ignored, bouncing off of her like the blows of an infant.

For the first time, he feels fear. It washes over him like a wave of icy water, and suddenly it is the _only_ thing he can feel. An icy fear seeping into his mind and body, as cold as the stranger’s hands.

“I have family,” is the first thing he can think of to say, bargaining for his life. If it's money she wants, he doesn't have much on him, but maybe he can negotiate a ransom. “They'll pay you for me. They'll want to find me.”

Her eyes narrow, amused. He feels a chill run up his spine, and suddenly he _knows_. He does not have to wonder; it is not money she wants.

“Then you'd better get back to them,” she mutters, and tilts his head to the side.

When he feels sharp teeth sink into the side of his neck, the first thing he does is struggle. Flailing in her iron grasp does little good, as panic sets in and his breath grows shorter and shorter. Then, just as suddenly, a shower of calm washes over him. If not calm, then he would call it sedation. He no longer feels the urge to fight, to flee, or to even live.

His life is in the hands of this stranger. His blood is being drained, and he feels euphoric. _He wants to give himself up._

When the world goes black, he has no regrets.

He doesn't expect to wake up the next morning, safe and sound in his own bed.

* * *

 

The first time it happens, it’s an accident.

He’s been distracted all day by the gnawing emptiness eating away at his stomach. It’s his second day back at school, after a bad bout of flu and fever that let up almost as quickly as it came on, leaving him feeling strangely refreshed. He knows he ought to be fine, but he doesn’t feel it.

He feels _hungry_ \-- starving, actually, and it’s a craving no amount of lunch can cure.

As the day drags on, his distraction only grows worse. He can’t think of anything else. His body feels dry all over, moisture abandoning his skin. Sweat from practice glistens cool along his neck, and his stomach is silent in its hollow craving. _Hunger_ \-- it’s all he can think about. When he gets home, he decides, he will order an entire pizza and eat it for himself; yet the thought gives him no satisfaction.

He’s putting away the volleyball nets with Kindaichi when it hits him -- a sharp, stabbing pain in his stomach, almost like a knife twisting in his gut. He lets out a sharp gasp, doubling over. Kindaichi, the only other person in the gym, turns from the net and rushes to his side.

“Oikawa-senpai! What is it? Are you hurt?”

When a sharp metallic smell hits his nose, it comes with a sudden rush of elation. He's finally found what he needs, and his head shoots up to fix on Kindaichi. He realizes, eyes locking on it at once, that the boy had chewed the skin on his lower lip. Drops of crimson bead on pink flesh, stark and so, so _irresistible_ …

And Oikawa remembers nothing else besides hunger.

He comes back to himself before he can drain Kindaichi entirely. Hazily, his eyes seem to open for the first time all day. It's like waking up from a dream. He finds himself crouched on the ground, blood soaked through the front of his gym shirt, with his kouhai limp and bleeding underneath him. He has Kindaichi pinned to the floor with his knees, but the boy doesn't look as if he'd put up much of a fight. Two steady streams of blood run down from twin puncture wounds on his neck.

Oikawa’s first reaction is panic; then, after ascertaining that Kindaichi is still alive, horror.

He'd just attacked his teammate.

But even as he springs off of Kindaichi, throat tight in revulsion as the realization of what he'd done fully sets in, there's one thing he can't ignore.

He no longer feels so hungry.

* * *

 

“I - I did something bad.”

Iwaizumi is immediately attentive over the other line. Although he can not see him, Oikawa can imagine his friend’s eyes narrowing, spine straightening and jaw going tense. “What did you do,” he says, always so careful, and Oikawa can taste blood in his mouth as he replies.

“I - I hurt --” He can't get it out. Saying it makes it real. Though he is never at a loss for words, this time his tongue simply won't cooperate with his mouth.

“Something’s wrong, Iwa-chan,” he finally manages to gasp. “Something’s really wrong with me.”

* * *

 

Iwaizumi takes it well, considering the situation.

Not that Oikawa had expected anything less. His best friend is always capable, able to handle anything -- the foundation of their relationship is Iwaizumi’s steadiness. Even in the face of the drained body of their underclassman, he doesn't panic. Instead, facing the situation head-on, he places his hands on his hips and takes a breath.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

Oikawa hasn't stopped trembling since he climbed off of Kindaichi. With Iwaizumi here, however, a semblance of calm is beginning to return to him. He feels stillness seeping back into his limbs, along with the trust that his friend can take care of this. (He could never put as much faith in anyone else. Iwaizumi is special.)

Iwaizumi carried Kindaichi down to the locker rooms himself -- a struggle, in the face of Kindaichi’s considerable height and weight. He manages anyway, with Oikawa following at a sedate pace, and he doesn't ask for help. Oikawa is relieved -- he doesn't want to touch Kindaichi now. Not ever again.

“Wipe off your mouth,” he orders, making the limp boy comfortable on a bench. “Rinse your mouth, change your clothes. Get a few paper towels -- ball them up and make them wet. We need to clean his neck.”

Keeping busy is a relief, because it distracts Oikawa from the reality in front of him. Even water can't rid his mouth of the metallic taste entirely -- but it's a start. He molds the paper towels in his fists and passes them off to Iwaizumi. Dried blood is scrubbed gently from Kindaichi’s neck, to reveal the two slender puncture wounds. They're slight, and hard to see at the wrong angle. If someone didn't look too hard, they could easily not be noticed at all.

Iwaizumi draws in a deep breath, as if relieved. Oikawa’s hands start to tremble again.

“Hey,” Iwaizumi snaps, not needing to look at him. “Don't lose it here. Keep it together.”

By the time Kindaichi’s eyes flutter open, the blood is gone and the trembling has ceased. Ever the good senpais, Oikawa and Iwaizumi hover over him, faces masks of undisguised concern.

“Hey, kid,” Iwaizumi greets, a tiny smile on his lips. “How are you feeling?”

A low moan slips from Kindaichi’s lips; there is a second of worrying stillness before he is able to lift a hand to his head. “Hurts,” is all he says, and a shadow passes over Iwaizumi’s face.

He helps Kindaichi as the boy struggles to regain his bearings. Dizziness hangs heavy over him, keeping his pupils dilated and preventing his eyes from focusing. He trembled a bit as Iwaizumi helps him sit up. When his gaze finally locks, he suddenly goes still again. Oikawa feels the pressure of his eyes burning into him.

“Wh- what happened, Oikawa-senpai?”

His tone is not accusatory. He sounds vulnerable, and Oikawa’s throat feels dry. The wide eyed look on the younger boy's face leaves him feeling helpless and disgusted with himself.

“You fell,” he explains. The words taste bitter on his tongue. “We were putting away the nets, and you slipped and hit your head. You gave us a pretty bad scare, Kindaichi-chan.”

The boy might have flushed, but his face was still worryingly pale. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, and he swayed in place as he tried to focus on his upperclassmen -- but he was alive.

“I'm sorry,” he mutters. “I don't… don't remember. I'll be more careful…”

Iwaizumi is the one to assure Kindaichi that it's alright, stroking a hand up and down his back as he regains his equilibrium. He's the one to help Kindaichi to his feet, to lead him upstairs and make sure he's in proper condition to walk home. “Get some rest,” he urges, clapping the boy gently on the shoulder. “Take it easy. Don't worry about practice if you're not feeling well tomorrow.”

Kindaichi gives a shaky nod, and starts on his way. The gym door shuts behind him. Only when they were entirely alone does Iwaizumi turn back towards Oikawa -- his movements painfully, creepingly slow.

Oikawa inhales a shaky breath, fists clenching at his sides. “I'm sorry,” he says, voice steely over a well of vulnerability. “I… really am sorry. I don't -- don't know --”

When he finally gives up, all he can do is gasp. His hand flies to his chest as it suddenly becomes impossible to breathe; panic seizes him on instinct. As his face screws tight, he feels adrift on a vast ocean and unable to pull himself in. He had hurt Kindaichi. He could have _killed_ him. What is he? What sort of monster could do that? _What is wrong with him --_

A hand lands on his shoulder, firm and anchoring. Just as quickly as it had come, the panic drains away, leaving Oikawa feeling hollow.

“It's alright,” Iwaizumi says, squeezing his shoulder tight. When Oikawa looks up at him, he is steady as the earth, and his calm is tangible, infectious. “We’re going to figure this out together.”

* * *

 

They don't work it out fast enough.

It's a week before the hunger returns in full force, though Oikawa had felt it growing every day. Kindaichi misses school the day after the attack, but he's at practice the next morning. He looks fine, perfectly ordinary; as far as Oikawa can tell, nothing is wrong with him. The curse that was passed down to him did not travel to Kindaichi.

The next time the hunger rears its head, Watari is the unlucky victim. Oikawa corners him in a storeroom after practice. He doesn't go as quietly as Kindaichi had; he puts up a fight, kicking and shouting into the hand over his mouth, before the energy seems to drain from him at once. His blood tastes sweeter than Kindaichi’s, rich and tangy like a foreign fruit.

The same story is repeated again when Watari wakes up. Iwaizumi makes a show of being stern, warning the boy to be more careful, while at the same time assuring that he's alright. Oikawa hangs his head. He doesn't say a word.

“Is this your big idea?” Iwaizumi demands, voice thick with anger. “Just suck the entire team dry? People you know, people we see every day?”

“What am I supposed to do?” Oikawa spits back, venomous. “If not them, who?”

“You have your own damn fan club! I'm sure one of those girls would be happy to let you bite into their necks!”

“You want me to eat my fans?” Oikawa is scandalized. In response, Iwaizumi glowers at him. His lips curl upwards in a sneer that has Oikawa’s blood absolutely boiling. He lashed out with anger, hand striking the locker to his left. It lands with a loud bang, but he doesn't realize what he's done until Iwaizumi’s eyes widen in shock.

His hand is not on the locker, as he'd assumed. Rather, he'd sent it straight through the locker. There is a sizable hole, just wide enough for his fist to fit through. His hand now hovers in darkness among the belongings of the ruined locker’s owner.

Iwaizumi doesn't say a word. He doesn't need to. Oikawa can hear the way his pulse jumps, just a bit -- fear that he won't show.

“It's not going away,” Oikawa mutters, carefully extracting his hand from the ruined locker. “This thing, whatever’s wrong with me, it's still here. I can't fight it. It's stronger every day.”

“Try,” Iwaizumi says, a hint of desperation in his voice. Oikawa catches it, and suddenly he feels more vulnerable than ever.

In desperation, he slides something from his gym bag -- a compact mirror, stolen from his mother’s makeup bag. Iwaizumi takes a step forward when he clicks it open, bafflement clear on his face. “What are you --” he starts, but Oikawa doesn't give him the chance before tugging him closer.

Where there should be two reflections in the tiny frame, Iwaizumi only sees himself. His eyes widen; he glances between the tangible Oikawa at his side and the empty space in the mirror.

Oikawa swallows hard, and snaps the compact shut.

* * *

 

He doesn't sleep much at night anymore -- fitful intervals of unconsciousness, mingled with half-awake dazes. At times he finds himself standing by his open window, staring out at the starlight sky. Other times he ventures to his bedroom door, only to stop before crossing the threshold. When his alarm goes off in the morning, he is always more exhausted than he was before going to sleep. His only rest, it seems, can be found in the middle of class. It's a struggle to keep his grades from slipping, maintained mostly by Iwaizumi’s meticulous notes.

In an attempt to remedy this sleeplessness, Iwaizumi stays over at Oikawa’s house one Friday. When the hunger returns again that night, cooling deep in his stomach and digging its fangs deep, his eyes rove over Iwaizumi’s golden neck. He feels his teeth sharpen, his senses heighten, the need peak inside of him.

Oikawa digs the futon out of his closet, and sleeps on the floor for the night.

* * *

 

The sun winds up burning his skin during an outdoor practice. Bright red and scorching, he can hardly move without agony lighting up every nerve. Iwaizumi is the one to sit on his bed with him, massaging aloe over his scorched shoulders and neck.

“You have to be more careful,” his best friend scolds. Iwaizumi’s voice is a low rumble against Oikawa’s chest, and the other boy has to force himself not to dwell on it.

“It burned me through my shirt, Iwa-chan. Straight through! What does this mean? Can I not go to the beach now? Is suntanning just no longer an option for me? Is --”

Iwaizumi claps him on the side of the head, shutting him up immediately. A hiss of _“dumbass”_ takes the words straight from Oikawa’s mouth, prompting him to roll his eyes at his best friend instead. He might stick his tongue out, but he doesn't want to give Iwaizumi a flash of his newer, elongated incisors. Now when Oikawa smiles, it's usually with his mouth closed.

“Things aren't the same now. You can't be so careless, or else you're going to get hurt.”

“It's easy to forget,” he mutters, voice soft. Sometimes, when the hunger isn't pressing and he doesn't feel exhausted from lack of sleep, he can forget what he has become. On the court, things are the same. In class, everything is normal. With Iwaizumi, nothing has changed.

(Not really, anyways. He hopes not.)

Still, he sometimes finds himself staring too long at something his friend does -- whether he tosses his head back in a laugh, or narrows his eyes in preparation for a serve -- and he feels it again. The one thing he can never escape.

The hunger.

* * *

 

He gets desperate, after a while.

Too many nights are spent in a state of half-awake awareness, studying photos taped onto his walls -- photos of Iwaizumi, all sturdy frame and genuine smiles. Too many nights are spent imagining what it would be like to have him. To sink teeth into his neck, right where the blood pulses strongly enough that Oikawa can hear it. To clutch him close, to drain him, to never have to let him go…

It's too much for Oikawa to bear. He begins to seek out his distractions… other places.

“It's okay, Yahaba-chan,” he whispers, lilting the younger boy’s neck to expose it in all its pale glory. Yahaba trembled slightly, but does not fight back. Even when Oikawa runs his tongue over the curve of his neck, tasting the salt on his skin, Yahaba stays still.

He doesn't imagine Yahaba when he bites. Instead he imagines muscles, bronze skin, sharp eyes, and short-cut hair.

No one else's blood has tasted as sweet.

* * *

 

Over the next few months, the members of the Seijoh volleyball team begin to experience a series of unexplained accidents.

They are all incidental, and seemingly unrelated, except for a few key factors. All of them occur after morning or afternoon practice, when the victim is alone. All of them involve a head injury that leaves the victim with no memory of what occurred. And all happen within the presence of one Oikawa Tooru.

“They gym is haunted,” some of the first years begin to whisper after a while. “It's a ghost. A demon. A _vampire.”_

Other people write them off as unexplainable instances -- strange, yes, but easily put down to the carelessness of teenagers. Still, it isn't long before the eyebrows of both the coaches and school administrators start to be raised.

“Try drinking less,” advises Iwaizumi, grunting as he lugs another third year’s body down to the locker rooms. Try drinking _downstairs_. Hell, I don't know, but people are starting to notice.”

After that, the accidents cease.

* * *

 

_“Iwa-chan, I need you.”_

_“Iwa-chan, help me, please.”_

_“Iwa-chan, I'm so hungry…”_  

* * *

 

“It's just down here,” Iwaizumi encourages, leading the way down the flight of stairs towards the school basement. “Coach asked me to grab some supplies, but they're pretty heavy.”

“Too much for our resident Superman?” Hanamaki’s voice is wry, footsteps relaxed as they keep pace with Iwaizumi’s own. His hand trails along the banister idly; his footing is sure as they descend the steps. Hanamaki is not the type to fall victim to unexplained accidents. “Not sure if I can help, but I'm glad you're finally acknowledging my status.”

“As what?”

“Stronger than Mattsun.”

Iwaizumi snorts. As they reach the bottom of the stairs, a dark hallway extends ahead of them. He charges forward fearlessly, so Hanamaki feels no trepidation in following. Only when they come to a storeroom at the end of the hall do they stop. Hanamaki’s eyes are sharp, following Iwaizumi’s movements as he pushes the door open and steps inside.

“They're right back there. The big boxes.”

Hanamaki steps inside; the door slams shut behind him.

There is something waiting for Hanamaki in the closet, alright -- but it is not boxes, and there are no supplies Iwaizumi could possibly need.

Oikawa says nothing; in the dim light of the storeroom, his eyes appear almost crimson as they bear into Hanamaki. If he hadn't been afraid before, Hanamaki suddenly is -- even if he doesn't realize it, beads of sweat prickle on his skin, and his breaths grow imperceptibly shorter.

“Oikawa?” The boy lets out a nervous laugh, eyes darting around the room. With Iwaizumi suddenly nowhere in sight, it becomes clear that something is wrong. As Oikawa advances, Hanamaki realizes he is cornered. His throat bobs with anxiety. Oikawa hears it -- every drop of saliva passing down his throat, each thrum of his heart as it speeds up. “What are you doing?”

Oikawa backs Hanamaki up until he is pressed against the wall. He doesn't fight back; Oikawa’s gaze paralyzes him, leaving him unable to do much more than breathe. As his friend’s hands find purchase on his shoulders, Hanamaki’s shoulders stiffen.

“What -- what are you --”

His neck tilts of its own accord, Oikawa not even needing to guide it.

“H- hey…”

Oikawa leans in, close enough that Hanamaki can feel the absence of breath against his exposed neck.

“Don't --”

There is a flash of pain, blinding and startling. Then -- numbness.

* * *

 

It's much easier for Iwaizumi to guide them away when they're in that trancelike state. Sleepy, pliant, and confused, their limbs move whichever way Iwaizumi gestures them to. When Oikawa entrances them, they don't fight back, and they don't remember a thing. It's become easier to feed now that he knows how much to take. It's much easier to slip under the radar when they don't have to keep making up bizarre accidents.

They don't limit themselves to the volleyball club now, either. Iwaizumi is social, handsome and popular in his own right. He makes sure Oikawa never needs to lure his meals on his own. That would be too risky, after all, and Iwaizumi has made it clear that it's all about protecting Oikawa.

For his part, Oikawa doesn't think of it as eating people now. It's just food.

As Iwaizumi leads a dazed Hanamaki out of the room, wiping the remnants of blood from his neck all the while, Oikawa watches them go. He swipes a hand across his mouth; it comes away smeared red.

In half an hour, volleyball practice will start. He’ll go up there to rejoin his team, and lead drills like a good captain should. Iwaizumi will be there. So will Hanamaki; maybe a little slower, less quick to respond and with a headache distracting him from serves, but he'll be there.

Oikawa will smile at him, and offer him an aspirin from his bag. Anything for a friend.

And then, next week, it will be someone else. Maybe he'll know them; maybe he won't. He just hopes they'll taste alright.

It's nothing personal, he tells himself.

* * *

 

Sometime in between living and dying, the lines of morality became blurred. Somehow, while Oikawa was so caught up in blending in and Iwaizumi in helping him do so, their friendship changed. More intimate now, past the bonds of childhood friends. They were secret and secret keeper; vampire and human.

And still, nothing was different. Not really.

“I'll never feed off of you,” Oikawa says one night, during yet another late night sleepover. Long-nailed fingers idly trace the artery along Iwaizumi’s neck. He listens to the thrum of blood in his veins as the boy turns over to face him.. “I’d never hurt you, Iwa-chan. You know that, don't you?”

“Sure I do.” Iwaizumi snorts, his nose crinkling in a way that would leave Oikawa breathless, if he had breath to lose. “You'd be a mess without me, idiot.”

It's true -- while the bonds of their relationship are blurred, they are no less real. Their roles are still the same, after all.

Iwaizumi is still Oikawa’s anchor, while Oikawa is the one always threatening to burn himself up. Without him, Oikawa fears he would lose the definition between _human_ and _monster_.

Even now, he is not sure where the lines are drawn -- and which side he falls on.

“Iwa-chan,” he says, voice soft, not disturbing the stillness of the late night. “You're not afraid of me, are you?”

Iwaizumi looks at him, and huffs a soft laugh. “Afraid of you?” he says, as if it's the most absurd thing he's heard all day. “Never.”


End file.
